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meg Jul 2017
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist.
Wait for what she will tell us.

True, our breath echoes the sea’s
sweeping tide. The inky bleeding
of saltwater that calms and soaks.
Drenched, this collective exhale.
I’ve always preferred silk over velvet;
that’s what the sea is. Silk over velvet.

The moon has seen every unholy rite,
her glare is cast cold. Over the Mysteries,
over me. Every pulse of her is lapped
up by the sea beneath. This shared breath
is echoed in the sea is echoed in the moon;
the universe folds itself. Lives inside a gasp.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
by her own rules.

Our stars are fading like so many discarded
loves. The world is tired, she crumbles
our castles. Crumbles our convent,
exhausts our goddesses. Daughter of life,
who slipped through Death’s doorway;
she sinks below. A seasonal existence.

Sunset spills red on the horizon, dedicates
her evenings to us. We exist by her signal
and her permission. She stretches her skin
for the moon. Lays herself as a blanket
on which night may sleep, cradled and safe;
a nest of stars. We all seek Dawn’s relief.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
in anger, in yellow, in rain.
inspired by the French phrase, 'il faut laisser aller le monde comme il va', which I saw floating around on the internet a while ago.
  Jul 2017 meg
Quinn Berube
My sheets are her canvas.
She calls this piece Love
And says she made it just for me.

How is it fair that I have seen
Art with a chest that rises and falls
Like suns and moons pass.

I've watched people die.
I've watched myself die.
I've watched you.
I want to be reborn.
meg Jul 2017
My saviour is a hunter, and he loves like a Sunday storm.

I’m singing in the blue room,
singing for him
and when I’m done, his applause
is the rain
a gale-force encore.

My saviour is the devil, and he loves like the sea in summer.

I’m skipping through thresholds
to reach him
and once I do, his arms
are the branches
a thorny embrace

My saviour is The Hermit, and he loves like the sting of a wasp.

Our nights,
nights we sleep sharing breath,
those nights are his.

Our mornings,
mornings he feeds me strawberry halves,
those mornings are mine.

My saviour is no saviour, and he loves like he hates:
all at once, with nothing to soften the blow.

There are 14 steps in my house.
He has stood at the top,
waiting for me to fall,
since I was a child.
meg Jan 2017
These moments - cold,
in the bathroom,
naked except for the blister plasters
and the indent across my ribs
from the new bra.

Before the eyeliner is scrubbed away.
Before I’m back to that flushed girl
with big dreams.

These moments - fresher
than the rest.

And in the end, always,
I’m churning everything inside me,
making pretty songs. But especially moments
like this.

Moments with clothes curled
on the tiles, with blue clarity,
the moments wondering if it matters
that my **** are lopsided.

Always poetry.

There are boys swimming in my head,
boys I once knew,
boys I might know,
girls I want to find. All

Suds down the drain. Sponge on skin.
Every moment in every bathroom -
every grimy, cold bathroom,
stacks of them, in my head.

Holy baths and sloppy showers,
moments for renewal,
moments of ***** thoughts.
Underwear kicked off, inside out,
door locked so only
this moment
exists - here - in front
of the mirror, the same crooked
grimace, the same curious brows.

Moments of steam and condensation,
bed socks twisted together.
Cold weight of wet hair, always
the same cycle. Water
rolling down my back.

I am my own ******, in all these moments.
meg Jan 2017
You: cheeks stained with opal drops,
lips smudged with ghost kisses.

Film star smoking in the dusk light,
wearing her wrap around coat and a frown.

Give ‘em hell and make them pay,
or cower beneath the blankets and shiver.

She’s a solid punch to the nose
but she does it so well you’ll praise her fist.

And she lets you take the stage for a while,
so she can watch you swing your hips.

Watch her through the frosted glass,
follow her through the demented nights.

Let her make you crazy.
Let her make you cry.
i don't know what to do with her
meg Nov 2016
My soft soul is too human
for this animal pain
that rips like a ghost upstairs;
uninvited but present, wafting and cold.

It presses a silk hand over my eyes
and drives a silver knife between my ribs.
It kisses my white lips
and forces its’ breath down my throat.

I can cry and I can fall
but can I love with a heart of glass,
full of shards that find comfort
only when bathed in my blood?

My soft soul is too kind
to this animal pain
that preens like a priest at the altar;
promising redemption and forgiveness.

It folds me inside out
and blows, gentles as a Sunday, on my hair.
It speaks in rich tongues
and the only translation I can find is red on teeth.

I don’t bend and I don’t tremble
but instead, I collapse, with my glass heart
shattered like dew drops
on a spiders’ web.
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